Destiny
by NCDavis
Summary: The ever allusive level of Super Saiyan. For Vegeta, the quest for it leads only to painful decisions. An epilogue to my Simply Irresistible. Complete.


Destiny  
by NCDavis

Disclaimer: All characters herein are the creation and property of Akira Toriyama. This humble work of fiction is intended for entertainment and worship-at-the-Toriyama-sama-shrine purposes only.

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A gentle night breeze stirred the window sheer in his and Bulma's room, sending the filmy fabric towards the crib just out of reach. Each waft seemed to keep time with his son's steady breathing. A warmth spread through Vegeta. _His son._ As known to him as his own blood, yet as foreign to him as an unseen world. One day he would walk and talk and be ready for his father to train him, but today. . . . Mostly he watched Bulma with him, marveling how she could be so comfortable, so patient, with the gangly, pudgy bundle of drool and coos.

There was, however, one thing he could do for him now. One thing he must. When they first learned of the androids, he hadn't been sure it wasn't an elaborate ruse. He still wasn't sure about the messenger, the lavender-haired boy who claimed to be from the future. Oddly enough, hair not unlike his own child. A rare color. Vegeta shook his head. No matter. What he had become sure of, in a warrior's instinct, was that a threat was imminent. He needed to be prepared. He needed to protect them. But this domesticity would serve him no longer as a proper place to train.

Slowly, carefully, he lifted the boy into his arms, chuckling as the brat snuggled to find a comfortable spot. Who would have thought infants could be such fascinating creatures? He tussled Trunks' forelock with his fingertip. Trunks. He should be Vegeta as his father, and his father before him. His birth should have been heralded across the planet, feared across the galaxy. As it was, beyond the joy shared by the few they knew, his birth went unnoticed. To her credit, Bulma had asked if he wanted to follow the tradition, but it had not seemed right. He would be the last of what was once considered the royal house of Vegeta. His son would know of his heritage, of the greatness of his people, but would not bear the marker of guilt at allowing them to be destroyed. Vegeta balled his hand into a fist. Nor would his father allow what remained to be wiped out of existence.

Velvety fur stroked his fist as if to calm him. Relaxing his fingers, he took the boy's tail in hand; let its trusting curl settle round his thumb. He'd refused to let them touch it, full moon be damned. Dangerous, but he had wanted to try other means of keeping the destructive transformation triggered by the tail under control. But with his leaving, the risk was too great. He'd let no human do the deed, though. No human had the right.

"Forgive me, my son." He shifted him, belly down, to the crook of one arm. Baring Trunks' bottom, he pressed the primary nerve that ran along the base of the Saiyan tail. With the boy's lack of a warrior's schooled mentality, it would be cruel to not block the pain. With his tail numbed, Vegeta flared energy off his pointer finger and honed it to laser sharpness. He first made an incision to destroy the small gland at the base. There was no sense in doing this only to have the tail grow back, as it would each time it was lost until the boy hit puberty. As for the appendage itself-- The slash was swift and clean, the heat sealing the wound in its wake. The fallen tail drifted down; he stared at it, suppressing the mourning in his heart, and with a small blast of energy left nothing.

He redressed his son as he carried the boy to the bed he shared with his mate. Part of him felt the coward for leaving while she slept. He snorted. Felt? He hated goodbyes. Nor would she let him simply leave. She'd have some sort of festivity -- party -- with her mother blubbering on about how she'd miss him while her friends pretended they cared what happened to him. And Bulma . . . Bulma would stand there, trying not to cry because she'd know he'd hate it . . . and it would tear him apart Yes, he was a coward because he couldn't bear seeing his mate in pain. Because he still couldn't fathom how her feelings could wreak such inner damage to his warrior's pride in the first place. He placed Trunks in the cradle of her arm. The now vacant tail slit in Trunks' sleeper would tell her all she needed to know on that score. The vacant launch pad where his ship was housed would tell her the rest. He could only hope the babe in her arms would fill in the one last detail. They were a family. They were his family. And he would return to them.

-End-


End file.
